


Fine by You (Downtown)

by sarken



Category: Real News RPF
Genre: F/M, FNFF SeSa 2008, Gay Male Character, Lesbian Character, Queer Character, Queer Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-07
Updated: 2009-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-04 12:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarken/pseuds/sarken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lesbian and a gay man walk out of a bar and fall into her bed. Again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine by You (Downtown)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Vibishan in the 2008 Fake News Secret Santa, for the prompt _Rachel/Anderson (bonus Keith optional): Finding happiness in unexpected places. The old "we're not gay, we were drunk/it was just one of those things/it never happened even though it keeps happening" denial cliche._ Beta by the lovely Amanda and a tweak by the equally lovely Henry.

When they can't talk the bartender into a third last call ("No, really, we mean it this time," Rachel said. "I won't even backseat bartend while you make my martini."), Rachel and Anderson stagger drunkenly toward the subway, knocking shoulders, elbows, and hands along the way. Rachel laughs at him from the other side of the turnstile while he fumbles with his MetroCard.

"You are _so_ drunker than me," she heckles, doubled over with laughter. She takes his picture with her BlackBerry's camera, and he whines that she could at least help him. She lets him struggle a little longer, waiting until she hears the train coming before she reaches over the turnstile and swipes him through.

They barely make it down the steps and onto the train before it pulls out, and they collapse, laughing, onto the nearest seats. They're too close, so Rachel shoves Anderson with her hip, not expecting Anderson to fight back, pushing her with his shoulder. The car is empty except for them, but they wrestle over the seat until Anderson has Rachel squished against the divider.

"God, I need a drink," Rachel says, panting, and they both crack up.

 

They end up back at her place, and it's the first time Anderson's been there. He surveys the one-room apartment while Rachel studies her liquor cabinet, and he feels like he should say something. "Cozy," he offers, sounding like a realtor.

"Closet-sized, you mean. Kind of ironic when you think about it, right?" Rachel says, grabbing a bottle. She unscrews the top. "I normally have more class than this, but I'm pretty drunk right now. So, you know, fuck it." She gives an exaggerated shrug and takes a swig from the bottle before offering it to Anderson.

"Here's to fucking it," he says, following suit, and soon they're half-lying on her bed, the bottle sandwiched between their hips. Rachel's fingers, graceful and feminine, curl loosely around the bottle's neck, and Anderson is transfixed as her hand slides along its length. His mouth has gone dry, and as Rachel's thumb circles the bottle's lip, Anderson touches the back of her hand.

 

He is lying on top of her, his leg between her thighs, when he remembers to stop kissing her. "You don't happen to have condoms, do you?" he asks, pulling away. He rubs the back of his head in confused embarrassment, looking down at her. Her t-shirt is pushed up on one side, and he can't quite believe it's like that because he just had his hand on her breast.

"Yeah, right next to my stack of _Playgirl_," she says, tugging her shirt down. She reaches for her glasses. "I'm a dyke, Andy. Of course I don't have condoms."

He blushes a little, but he's just drunk enough to explain his reasoning. "I thought maybe for your...toys. It's more sanitary. But, uh, I don't -- I usually have one in my wallet, but Monday, there was this guy, so I don't have one now. Is there a drugstore?"

 

Standing under the fluorescent lights of her neighborhood's dingy Duane Reade, Rachel has her keys in one hand and her BlackBerry in the other. "Anderson," she hisses into the phone, "I have no idea what I'm doing. It's your dick. Tell me what you want so I can get the hell out of here. I swear people are looking at me."

 

When she comes back, she's shame-faced but mischievous, pressing her back against the door and revealing the package with a flourish, whipping the plastic bag away and letting it fall to the floor. She laughs into Anderson's mouth as he kisses her and knots her t-shirt in his fist as he pulls her toward the bed.

She lands on top of him, knees on either side of his hips. That troublemaker's grin stays on her face as she slides her hands beneath his shirt, pushing it up and chasing its path with her mouth, nipping and kissing and chuckling against his lightly-defined abs. He's hard, smooth, and flat, and she likes it when he slides his hands into her back pockets, pulling her down and grinding his hips against hers.

 

They wake up hungover and naked, Rachel's sheets twisted around their legs, reaching only to their thighs. Wordlessly, Anderson reaches over the edge of the bed and hands Rachel her underwear, dangling it from the tip of his finger.

As they get dressed on opposite sides of the bed, they eye each other suspiciously, breaking eye contact only to glare at the near-empty bottle sitting on the nightstand. The box of condoms is there, too, and Rachel picks it up the same way Anderson held her underwear. "You want these?" she asks, looking and sounding a little offended by the box.

"Thanks, but I have some at home," he says, putting on his shoes. He looks at her and grins through the pain throbbing in his head. "I keep them next to my sex toys and my back issues of _Playgirl_."

 

On his way out the door, he kisses her. Not some perfunctory, thanks-for-the-drunken-sex kiss, but something that backs her against the wall and leaves her head spinning. With shaking hands, she dry swallows two Tylenol and blames her hangover.

 

Weeks later, they have a late dinner and a bottle of wine at some new restaurant Anderson read about. It's the kind of place without prices on the menu, and Anderson never lets Rachel see the bill. He tucks his AmEx into the bill folder without hesitation, and he leans his forearms on the table as he watches Rachel's fingers circle the base of her wine glass.

When the waiter takes the bill, Rachel follows him with her eyes. "I hope that's not your way of getting me to put out," she says to Anderson, talking a delicate sip of her wine.

Anderson laughs and sits back. "Of course not," he replies, and he flashes a disarming smile as his foot brushes against her leg.

 

"I'm gay, you know," he tells her, wondering why they're here again, back in her tiny studio apartment. They could have gone to his place, sat on his furniture, not taken their chances by being so close to a bed.

"Interesting," Rachel says. She tilts her head inquisitively and gives him a little smile. "So, if you're gay and I'm gay, that means we probably shouldn't do the whole sex thing again, right? At least not together."

She's leaning toward him, but that's okay because Anderson is pretty sure he's leaning toward her, too. "I don't know," he says, inches from kissing her. "I remember it being...kind of good the first time, actually. But there was a lot of alcohol. Maybe we should try it again, make sure. You know, before we write it off completely."

 

In the morning, Rachel trails a finger down Anderson's chest. "Still gay?" she asks, her finger dipping into his navel.

"Yeah," he says, laughing a little as she replaces her finger with her tongue. He rests his hand lightly on the back of her head, toying with her hair. "What about you? Still gay?"

"Still gay," she confirms, picking her head up. His hand slips down to rest between her shoulder blades and his fingers tap out a rhythm against her skin. "I was actually thinking about taking a shower and washing all this gross straightness off me. You want to share, maybe save some water, re-infect me with the gay?"

His smile starts off slow before spreading into something wicked. "That's an STD, right?" he asks, hands on her waist, following her out of bed and into the shower.

 

Keith scowls at her over his coffee mug. "You look wide-eyed and bushy-tailed," he observes distastefully, and Rachel beams at him, watching as he scowls even further.

"It's the bourbon," she says matter-of-factly. Her fingers dance against the flat surface of his desk, moving to the rhythm Anderson's fingers played on her back. "Well, that and I had an excellent night. _And_ an equally excellent morning. It's been, all around, a pretty excellent twelve hours."

The black look on his face darkens, and Rachel laughs. "Oh, Keith, your face is going to freeze like that someday."

 

Hours later, already in his suit and makeup, Keith peeks into her office. He looks at her curiously and ventures, "Didn't you go out with Anderson last night?"

She shuffles some papers around on her desk. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

 

After her show, Keith takes Rachel out for a drink. It's a new place, somewhere they've never been, and all the televisions are playing CNN. Anderson's show is on, and Rachel flirts shamelessly with the bartender so Keith can't ask any questions.

 

Her head is spinning a little when she gets home, and she makes her way over to the bed to sit. As she pushes the dirty, tangled sheets aside, the box of condoms on her nightstand catches her eye.

She knocks the box into the wastebasket and, sighing, takes out her BlackBerry. "Anderson," she says, "can you come over? We need to talk."

 

They've done this before, kissing frantically and stripping off clothing as he walks her backwards to the bed. They just haven't done it with her saying, "I can't do this, Anderson; I'm a dyke," while she pulls his shirt over his head.

"Is that a problem?" Anderson asks, even though she has him pushed up against a wall and is on her knees, loosening his belt. His hands rest on her shoulders, not stopping her, but letting her know she can. "If you want to talk, we can talk. Do you want to stop?"

Rachel sits back on her heels for a moment before looking up at him. "I _want_ to want to."

"C'mon," he says, offering her both of his hands and pulling her to her feet. He overshoots and she falls against his chest. "Just because we did this before, it doesn't mean we have to do it tonight. Or ever again. You're gay, I'm gay, we can chalk this up to -- to whatever. But just don't make the decision based on what you think you should want, all right?"

 

Kneeling over him, she wakes him up early the next morning. As he blinks sleepily at her, she drops a still-wrapped condom onto his chest and says, smiling, "All right."

 

_That distraction inside of me, oh well._  
I just can't get it straight you see and oh well.  
It's fine by you, I am fine by you.  
\- "Downtown," Tegan &amp; Sara


End file.
